


Say Anything (Or Say Nothing at All)

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU in that Cullen is not straight, Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apostates (Dragon Age), Awkward Cullen, Banter, Bullavellan, Cullavellan UST, Cullen Has Issues, Cullen is Not Fumbly, Cullen simply takes nothing for granted, Dark-ish Inquisitor, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Happy Ending, He's certain of nothing and thus very wary, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Iron Bull Is a Good Bro, Lavellan Backstory, Light Angst, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Not even the consistent behavior of his friends, Open Relationships, Past-Doribull, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Sweet Cullen Rutherford, Teasing, Virginity, Well of Sorrows, cullrian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 07:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12649428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: If human interaction is a form of currency, Cullen has always consideredtalkto be rather cheap. He is a man of action, not words, and if he’s too shy to act upon what he feels, he’ll certainly never be able tosay it, either. Though, that might change, with some brotherly advice from a mercenary; some candid and unambiguous interest from the Inquisitor; an offer he’s far too flustered to do anythingbutrefuse, and some opportunities even the most stoic, self-denying Templar can’t pass up. Plus, dessert!





	Say Anything (Or Say Nothing at All)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for DA: II and vague spoilers for Inquisition. Um, AU, in that Cullen’s not straight. Still set in the canon Inquisition timeline, if a bit nebulously. Post-Well of Sorrows. Very light angst and brooding. Some kink negotiations and mentions of/implied polyamory. My excuse to dabble in some of my preferred Cullen-tropes. You’ll see which ones. Mostly banter, fluff, and some smut.
> 
> Thanks to [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual) for the lovely prompt, and special thanks to [Paperiuni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperiuni)'s [Rites of Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566742) for informing and inspiring a better and more interesting/layered version of The Iron Bull. Check 'em out, my peeps!

 

 

 

 

**I**

 

It’s one of Cullen’s many and more easily recognizable flaws that, when not engaged in battle or strategy or sparring, he’s terribly maladroit.

 

He makes no bones about or secret of this, as he hasn’t the ability to. His lacking people and communications skills are legendary, at this point, and when surrounded by so many folks who seem to have those skills in spades, he supposes he stands out like a warped plank in an otherwise finished floor.

 

Even among his soldiers he has, he knows, a reputation for being a bit awkward, outside of the demands of leadership. Said reputation is more than a bit vexing, but quite well-earned. Even Cassandra Pentaghast is more adept at certain aspects of interaction with both civilians and those under her command, than Cullen can be. As proven by the surprisingly amicable détente at which she and Varric Tethras have arrived.

 

Since Knight-Commander Meredith’s corruption, betrayal, and demise, however, Cullen’s once-sure grasp of people and their motives has not only been thrown into question, but it’s moved even deeper into the territory of shifting uncertainty, with time and tide. Even when amongst his closest friends and comrades and colleagues—Cassandra and Leliana, Josephine and the Inquisitor (whom he still cannot manage to call _consistently_ by his first name, despite repeated and amused implorings to _please_ do so)—people whom he does and has and _will continue_ to trust with his life . . . if he’s not talking shop, then he’s probably not talking at all. Nor doing anything else.

 

Not from lack of interest or fondness, or from a lack of shared life experience. They are, all of them, warriors, of some kind, even Josephine. But Cullen never seems to know what to say to meet them halfway. He opens his mouth . . . and work comes out. Or, if there’s nothing of pressing importance or relevance to speak of, mortifying stammering and self-conscious inquiry into health and family, or limp musings about the weather. Both complete with furrowed brow and hectic blushing.

 

Cullen is a man who is _frequently_ mortified. Not for any reasons other than his own damned personal discomfort with word-like sounds and skittishness when it comes to feelings . . . especially his own. His deep-seated sense that, even if he were to suddenly know _all_ the perfectly appropriate things to say and the perfect way to say them . . . it wouldn’t bring him any closer to the sort of surety he’d once had about the nearest and dearest in his world. A surety that’s dwindled even more because of his increasing familiarity with the corrupt ways of the Templar Order, his experiences with Circle at Kinloch, and then the titanic clusterfuck that had nearly destroyed Kirkwall.

 

A very large part of his varied life has been leaping towards the illusion of safety, only to have it almost immediately crumble beneath his feet. Since the death of his parents and his self-imposed estrangement from his siblings, Cullen Rutherford’s had very little of certainty or reliability. What little he _has_ had he’s in constant fear of losing due to his own lack of foresight and preventative actions.

 

Though he always _aims_ to win, loss is one thing which never surprises or discommodes Cullen. And with age, he finds that such failures feel like his due. At least when it’s his personal life. Professionally, at least, despite the loss of the special edge Lyrium had given him and in spite of the terrifying apex of his withdrawal, Cullen feels steady and almost optimistic, most days. The fight against Corypheus and his Venatori is one that Cullen _can_ help the forces of order and lawfulness—of _goodness_ —win. He will never give less than his _all_ and _never_ give up on that necessary goal.

 

His personal life, however, is another story. Any hope of contentment or even optimism is so long-buried, he can’t remember the face of it, let alone the feel. He rarely acts in the right way, at the right time, even though he is, when all is said and done, _a man of action_. And he knows that, unless he were to suddenly become a great poet and orator, he will never _say_ the _right_ things at the right _time_ , either.

 

As it is, he’s only ever had _wrong_ things to say. Disappointing things. _Nothing_ things. Thoughtless things. Naïve things. Things that make anyone who’s truly listening to him, walk away. Or, if they stay, start saying things from which even Cullen chooses to distance himself.

 

That, in large part, is why there’s never been . . . _anyone_. And probably never will be, despite Cullen’s silly and dying yearnings for otherwise. Despite the temptation that’s more squarely in his path with each passing day.

 

And just never mind Cullen’s dead hopes and suppressed dreams.

 

 _Nothing anyone ever says_ truly _makes them knowable or reliable. Not in any consistent fashion—not really. Why say_ anything, at all _, if it could easily come to nothing, when it most matters?_ he always reminds himself with annoyed impatience after every painfully awkward interaction. Eventually, he’s able to agree with himself, on one thing, if nothing else. And with some degree of his old certainty . . . though not nearly so much of his old self-assured and naïve hubris. _What matters is_ action and behavior _. I don’t trust my friends and peers because they_ say _the right things, but because they_ do _the right things. Consistently and reliably. They prove themselves constantly through_ example _, not rhetoric. They have my back and have saved my life, and I’ve returned the favor. That is enough . . . or will have to be since_ anyone _can_ say anything _. . . except for me, of course. I am the absolute and undisputed master of saying nothing, at all_.

 

Thus, not-saying, he ends the silent conversation with himself there, knowing that sooner, rather than later, he’ll be having it again. But with less frequency, as time goes on. Or so he hopes—and doubts—every time he sits across from Dorian Pavus for their thrice-weekly chess match-ups, his idiot-heart beating a wild tattoo every time the other man smiles or laughs.

 

**II**

 

“So . . . you gonna hit that, anytime soon, or what?”

 

Cullen, groaning and blinking as he attempts to pick himself up off the ground, shakes his head and squints blearily up at The Iron Bull, who’s grinning down at him amiably, one huge hand offered in assistance. At this point, Cullen is far beyond the pride required to pretend he isn’t grateful for the help up. His entire body is an aching and throbbing rotten tooth. As it usually is after these “light” sparring matches with Bull.

 

His face flushing and blanching like the flicker of a flame, he patently ignores their audience of one, where said audience leans against a lone and useless wooden post about as high as three men. But Cullen can feel that stormy-intent gaze like a second sun kindled on Thedas, as he takes Bull’s hand and is pulled to his feet.

 

Finally, many groans later, he’s standing once more—wobbling and listing markedly—as Bull kindly, easily steadies him with one big arm slung around his shoulders. They’ve already begun a directed stagger from the sparring ring before his brain catches up with what the mercenary had said.

 

_Hitting something? What in the name of the Maker. . . ?_

 

He frowns and tries to make sense of it as Bull leads them out of the sparring ring—and away from that keen, bothersome, and _beautiful_ gaze, and the keen, bothersome, and beautiful _everything else_ to which it’s attached—toward what Cullen presumes is the nearest flagon of ale. (Even though Bull complains rather endlessly about the watery, Orlesian stuff that so proliferates at Skyhold.)

 

“Er . . . _what_? Hit what? And why?” Cullen groans, squinching his eyes shut for a few moments as they pass from sunlight to shade, briefly. When he opens them again, the spinning has mostly stopped and they’re approaching one of the castle’s many unofficial entry-points.

 

“ _That_ , Cullen, my friend,” Bull says slyly, nodding back the way they’d come as he flings open a narrow wooden door. Cullen, still fighting a bit of dizziness, doesn’t bother to look, merely repeats himself as they step into the blessed dimness of one of Skyhold’s many back and forgotten ways.

 

Bull seems to already know them all, lifelong spy that he is.

 

“What? What am I hitting and why?” Then, before Bull can reply, Cullen grunts: “And _yes_ , I’m aware that by _that_ you mean something back toward the ring, Bull. But there’re rather a _lot_ of things back that way, including a rain barrel and several chickens. None of which I have an interest in hitting.”

 

As ever, Bull’s raucous laugh is infectious, and Cullen snorts and smiles a little, letting himself be steered probably toward the kitchens. At the thought, his stomach growls, a surprise in and of itself. In these post-Lyrium days, Cullen’s appetite is still an iffy thing, coming and going to its own mysterious schedule, rarely inspired by even the most enticing scents from the kitchen or the meals acquired therein. He’s been known to watch both Bull and Cassandra wolf down delicious meals, with pathetic longing. Not because he wants to be eating, himself, but because he envies the _desire_ to put away food in quantities greater than what is absolutely necessary to survival. And enjoying the experience, to boot.

 

Everyone’s noticed, by this point, even if they don’t know the reason behind Cullen’s lack of appetite. Even _Sera’s_ taken to sneaking desserts into his office—he’s _fairly sure_ she’s the one leaving them on his desk—rather than pelting him with them from cover and laughing.

 

Mostly pies and cakes and, a few times, some heavily-sweetened, porridge-like mess that had looked quite disreputable but had tasted like childhood. Never leaves any cookies, though, which Cullen has found odd and a bit saddening, as he quite enjoys cookies . . . or had, back when food had been a priority _and_ a pleasure.

 

“By _that_ , I mean the pretty, pouty, mage-boy making eyes at you so intensely, I’m surprised you haven’t caught fire, yet. Literally,” Bull adds after a slight pause and a barely noticeable shudder.

 

And Cullen may be dense, but he’s no idiot. He blushes, but refrains from stammering. Though he allows himself to mutter: “I . . . don’t follow?”

 

“Sure, ya don’t, Cull.” Bull snorts and chuckles, his big arm tightening around Cullen in a near-headlock. One that loosens, however, when Cullen chokes out an alarmed squawk. “Oh, sorry, guy. Anyway, the Tevinter Temptation’s been givin’ you bedroom eyes for _months_ , now. Even Cole’s noticed. And he’s been asking _really_ weird questions about it. _My_ question is . . . when’re you gonna pounce on that? Because a guy like _him_ —hotter than a forge, appetite like a ravening tiger, and _seriously_ fucking sought-after—ain’t gonna wait around forever. Not even for _you_.”

 

“Wh-whah?” Cullen looks up—and up—at Bull with wide, near-panicked eyes. The other man is smirking almost fondly. Frowning, Cullen opens his mouth to insist once more that he has no idea what Bull is on about. But what comes out instead is: “How do _you_ know what his, er, appetite, is like?”

 

Bull glances down at Cullen, his smirk deep and sardonic.

 

Cullen’s heart drops into the place formerly occupied by his stomach, which has taken up residence somewhere near his knees. The large part of him that's ruled by unchecked fatalism is bitterly vindicated and not at all sympathetic.

 

“Oh. _Oh_ , er. . . .” he stammers out, numb and deeply disappointed. Utterly downcast in mere moments. Stumbling slightly as they turn a corner and the faint scent of food makes his nostrils flare in acknowledgement, and nothing more. “I, er . . . see. I had thought that you and the _Inquisitor_ . . . well, anyway. Congratulations, I suppose. To you and Dorian both.”

 

Bull snorts and squeezes Cullen closer and tighter, until bones creak. Probably Cullen’s.

 

“Ah, well, _damn_. Guess I owe Threll some dirty, sexual favors, after all. He was _right_ about you being in _deep_. Both feet,” the larger man muses, his smirk turning into a grin as Cullen glares. “Don’t worry, Cull. I’m not, uh, double-dipping my quill in your preferred ink, if ya follow. I mean, Dorian and I had a few drunken nights, _way_ back when. But we were two dreadnoughts passing in the night. And even if we weren’t . . . I’m a one mage-man, now. And _the Inquisitor is_ that mage.” Bull shrugs, but his grin is now a reassuring and contented smile. “No worries for the Inquisitor _or_ for your boy. Threll and I— _the Inquisitor and I—_ are exclusive, to put it delicately. I’m pretty sure that if I tested that beyond our joint excursions, he’d magic the balls right off me. Or possibly just _rip_ ‘em off. Heh. Those Dalish can be weirdly vicious and bloodthirsty, when motivated.”

 

Bull sounds far from upset or dismayed about that, his face gone from plain, old musing, to a _different_ sort of musing, entirely. Cullen ventures a question of his own.

 

 “So, you and the Inquisitor are . . . serious? You truly care for him?”

 

Bull chuckles again, his gaze drifting ahead, his profile gone a bit baffled. “Threll is . . . a feisty, fiery, _sexy_ little minx, with a sharp tongue and an effective right-hook. He’s the most _intense_ power-bottom I’ve ever had the pleasure of trying to tame, and a balls-to-the-wall scrapper, with the biggest, bravest, _kindest_ heart I’ve ever encountered. Not to mention the kinda eyes into which you don’t gaze, so much as _drown in happily_. Now, _I’m_ easily ten distinct kinds of fool. But I’ll be _damned_ if I let all of _that_ get away without putting up the fight of my life for it. Damned if I don’t _keep him_ for as long as he wants to be mine.”

 

Cullen finds himself smiling as he aims his own gaze at the way ahead. The scent of many delicious meals has grown stronger, and Cullen can only appreciate it academically, even as his stomach growls in nostalgic frustration. “And yet, _I’m_ the one who’s in deep with both feet?”

 

“Weeelll.” Bull snorts again. “I never said you were there _alone_ , now, did I?”

 

Blushing, Cullen clears his throat. “Be that as it may, I’m happy for you both. The Inquisitor— _Threllaryn_ is a good man. He’s had a tough, dark road of it, and for as long as you’re dedicated to easing and brightening that road . . . I shall always be in _your_ corner, as well as his, Bull.”

 

“You softie.”

 

Cullen huffs, rolls his eyes, and elbows Bull in the side. The other man doesn’t so much as grunt, though he does chuckle briefly, warmly.

 

“So, now that we’ve got _my_ love-life settled, Ser Rutherford . . . about _yours_. . . .”

 

“How can there be an _about_ regarding that which does not exist?”

 

“Ah, you Templars and your philosophical airs,” Bull dismisses with good-natured mockery. “Bottom line is, Cullen, you and Pavus want each other so damned _bad_ , it’d be funny if it wasn’t so frustrating.”

 

“I will freely admit that Dorian Pavus is . . . a very attractive man, Bull—”

 

“Uh-huh. So glad we agree, Comte de Understatement.”

 

“—but that doesn’t necessarily mean that _I_ am attracted to—”

 

Bull stops their forward momentum some few yards from a more traveled corridor that Cullen almost recognizes, and places both ham-hands on Cullen’s shoulders, looking down into his eyes sternly.

 

“My friend, we were grappling—and I was winning. _Of course_ , I was—and _you_ were holding your own pretty damned well. Until the _Imperial Itch_ strolls into view, all form-fitting, glittery outfit, exposed shoulder, and Minrathous rentboy-pose. Levelling that stormy-hungry stare at _you_ , and all of a sudden . . . you’re on the ground, easy-peasy, without even trying to defend yourself against a take-down that shouldn’t have worked on Cole. Not to mention your face kept going beet-red then sheet-white.” Bull’s left brow shoots up and Cullen turns red. Then goes pale. Then turns red, again. Bull nods. “Uh-huh. Like that. And then, you made such an obvious point of _not_ looking his way while I scraped you up off the ground. Though, if you had, you’d have seen how adorably worried he was for you.”

 

Going red, once more, Cullen grimaces. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Bull. . . .”

 

“ _Ben-Hassrath_ , so . . . really _not_.”

 

Redder, still. “I . . . by the Maker, Bull.”

 

“You can’t tell me after all the games of chess you two play, all alone in your Special Little Place—and _yeah, everyone_ calls it that, and everyone _knows_ not to go there or interrupt while you two are _playing chess_ , unless the situation is _dire_ —you don’t know, or haven’t guessed what’s up? With all the smoldering gazes, snobby-sexy banter, and innuendo-ing mage-boy likes to engage in, you can’t possibly be _completely unaware_ that he’s all but throwing himself at you and has been since . . . a while, now?”

 

Cullen hangs his head, pale, once more. Flustered and stymied, his stomach now flopping frantically in the spot where his heart used to hold court, and his heart hiding behind his larynx like a big, red frog. “He . . . can’t be interested in me, Bull. Not in _that_ way.”

 

“Why not? You’re a good-looking, smart, nice, _stand-up_ sorta guy. You’ve got the admiration, ear, confidence, and affection of _the Inquisitor_ , and the entire Inquisition. I’m pretty sure the only people in Skyhold who don’t wanna be _with you_ are the ones who wanna _be you_. And I know which camp _I’d_ bet coin on Dorian sorting into.”

 

“No, that’s. . . .” Cullen’s shoulders sag even as he looks up at Bull. The other man is smiling kindly, warmly. Encouragingly. Cullen’s never wanted or needed a big brother, but for the moment, it’s rather nice to sort of have one. “If that were true, Bull, then . . . I’d be a fool not to act on that truth, wouldn’t I? Even if that’s . . . not action I’m remotely prepared to take, or on which I’d know how to follow-through. Only a fool would waste such an opportunity. Or a complete blithering idiot.”

 

Bull frowns absently. “Hmm, well, I’ll admit, you’re not the _smoothest-talkin_ ’ fella I ever met. . . .”

 

“To put it kindly.”

 

“But if _that_ was all His Heavenly Highness was interested in, he’d’ve set his sights elsewhere a long time ago.”

 

“Even if that were true, Bull, it would certainly be better for us both if he _had_ , wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Bull scoffs. “Hey, look, guy, I get that you’re all stoic and self-denying. Shy and out-of-bounds. That’s part of your Templar charm. But really, you need to let him pounce on you before he pounces on someone else—someone who’s not _me_ , because, seriously, _not_ lookin’ to have my balls ripped off. But the Princely Posterior ain’t gonna wait around forever, y’know? That he’s waited around _this long_ speaks well of the both of you, however.”

 

Almost smiling, Cullen shrugs. “That’s . . . generous of you to say, Bull. And true, at least in Dorian’s case. He is . . . quite kind to wait upon the courage of one who’s far from courageous _or_ worthy. _If_ he’s harboring some sort of partiality for me, that is.”

 

“ _Partiality_ , he says. Ha!” Bull rolls his eye. “Eh, but maybe I’m the one who’s been goin’ about it all wrong this whole time, all confidence and swagger. Maybe _I_ shoulda been shy and demure and . . . _you-ish_. I’da probably pulled down a _gaggle_ of ass! Uhhh, y’know. _Before_ me and Threllaryn. Obviously.”

 

Cullen stifles a snicker when Bull glances around them, as if expecting the Inquisitor to ‘round a corner, wielding a frying pan and the aforementioned sharp tongue. And perhaps a mage-bolt. “Obviously.”

 

“But even if that shy-innocent act _did_ garner a lotta interest back in the day, you _hadda also_ be doin’ somethin’ a bit more proactive to _keep_ that interest, right? Right!” Bull smacks Cullen’s right shoulder heartily and Cullen staggers to the left with a pained and winded grunt. “Whatever you did to land those other fish in your rowboat, just throw a little of _that_ Dorian’s way. Granted, he’s a _bit_ more high-maintenance and—I dunno . . . intimidating? —than most other people, personality-wise. But trust me, guy: just going on the way he _looks_ at you, you’d have to try _damned_ hard to actually mess up or lose his interest. So, just . . . follow those noble instincts of yours. Oh, and, uh, it wouldn’t hurt to frequently compliment his hair and outfits. And his _fantastic_ ass. _You_ know. The usual stuff.”

 

“Actually, I _don’t_ know. I’ve never, erm, garnered, _nor_ kept fish of any kind. Ever,” Cullen admits miserably, barely more than a morose sigh with syllables. Immediately thereafter, he has the rare, but suspect pleasure of seeing _The Iron Bull_ blink, and look both startled and confounded.

 

“Uh,” the dumbstruck mercenary says, sounding almost breathless. Then he blinks some more—or, perhaps, he’s winking? It would be impossible to tell which, Cullen suddenly realizes—and shakes his head a bit. “Sooooo . . . what you’re implying is . . . _never,_ uh _, gone courting_? Like, not _ever_? Isn’t that _unusual_ for a human?”

 

Cullen’s face finally settles on a blotchy and uncomfortable cerise as its new complexion. “Quite. And not ever, no. My life has never lent itself easily or at all to . . . romantic entanglements.”

 

“Wow, Cullen, that’s . . . damn. _Damn_ , that’s—wait. _Wait a hot minute_ , does that mean you’ve never even . . . like, _ever_? Not even a one night-stand? Or relieving stress in the Templar-barracks, in the heady days of your novicehood?” Bull’s eye is wide, indeed, not even blinking or winking. He’s even gaping just a little. Cullen sighs again and pastes on a wry, but limp smile that probably looks even more pathetic than it feels.

 

“Though not prohibited, such liaisons were frowned upon between comrades-in-arms. And certainly, between different levels in the chain of command. And unlike some of my peers I . . . did not accept the affections or enticements of my charges in the Circle. I had no stomach for amorous interactions brought about only by an imbalance of power, and the disgusting intersection of those indulging in taboo carnalities with those offering or submitting out of fear-based compliance.”

 

“Uh, _no_ , of _course_ , not!” Bull is quick to agree at Cullen’s stiff, formal tone and words, but he still looks gobsmacked and more than a bit pitying. Though, Bull being Bull, it’s probably less pity and more compassion. Were Bull the pitying type, Cullen would not be speaking so freely of something that he finds . . . not shameful, but rather troubling and frustrating. “Because whatever your style is, it’s not _complete-fucking-asshole_. But like I said, Cull, you could have any guy or gal you wanted swooning at your feet with a look and a smile. And that includes _Serah_ Sex-Pants.”

 

Cullen barks a rueful laugh. “And once he revived from that swoon, what exactly would I say or do? In what way would I be able to hold his interests or expectations? I’m a thirty-two-year old virgin who’s never so much as had a youthful, romantic dalliance, let alone an actual paramour, Bull.”

 

“Aww, that’s _nothin’_! I once knew a guy who was a _forty-year-old_ virgin!” Bull enthuses, but sotto-voice, thankfully. Not that there’s anyone around to notice them, lingering in one of the less-traveled hallways between the salle they’d been grappling in and the kitchens. Bull smacks Cullen’s still-smarting arm in exactly the same place, high on the bicep, occasioning another stagger that Cullen weathers graciously. “Great guy—never even _kissed_ anyone before some friends and I made his _utter besmirchment_ into a holy-fucking-crusade! And, anyway, once it got around that he was, uh, _untried_ . . . well, let’s just say a _whole lotta people_ were interested in _givin’_ him that try, if ya know what I mean.”

 

“It’s rather rare that I _don’t_ know what you mean, Bull,” Cullen informs the larger man with his usual discretion, though he has to clear his throat around a snicker. Then the moment of levity passes, and he sags once again, while still rubbing his abused bicep absently. Though his customary armor is unsuited to hand-to-hand sparring and grappling—even when one’s opponent is a seasoned Qunari warrior and spy—he rather wishes he’d worn it, anyway. If only because, when wearing nothing more protective than an old, worn tunic and scuffed, patched breeches, the physical camaraderie of someone with Bull’s size and strength is almost more of a hazard than sparring with him. “And though I’m, er, happy for your friend and his . . . er, besmirchment . . . I fear that isn’t a path in which I have any interest.”

 

“Even if that path leads right to the bed of a primed and ready Dorian Pavus?”

 

Cullen ignores his intense physical reaction to even the _suggestion_ of such, and maintains his most pleasant, but staunch face. “Even so. I’m not interested in bedding someone I don’t care about, just to gain experience and technique to dazzle someone for whom I . . . _with whom_ I’m _quite_ content to remain a brother-in-arms and chess-partner. I’d rather let my chance pass and Dorian _suspect_ I’m a terrible disappointment, than to act on my feelings and . . . instincts, and remove all doubts.”

 

Bull is giving Cullen what the Inquisitor calls—with some exasperation and rue—“that bloody _Ben-Hassrath squint_.” His normally rakish and amiable expression is now utterly unreadable, but for a benign sort of measured consideration.

 

“Huh,” he says absently, squinting even more. Cullen blinks and blushes.

 

“Er . . . what? What does _huh_ mean?”

 

“ _Huh_ ,” Bull says again as he scratches his stubbly chin and jaw. He seems almost surprised—rather, a bit nonplussed, somewhere under that mask of his. Finally, he shakes his head and chuckles. “Well!”

 

“ _Well_? Now, there’s _well,_ as well? Should I be concerned?” Cullen demands, waspishly flustered himself, and certain that he probably _doesn’t_ want to know what Bull’s thinking.

 

Chuckling once again, Bull gives Cullen’s arm—the other one, thank goodness—a solid smack. Cullen staggers a bit to his _right_ this time, glaring up at the taller man.

 

“Ah, Cullen. I just got handed a sure-fire _win_ of a wager! This time, _Threll’s_ gonna be owing _me_ some dirty, sexual favors. An’ I’m gonna wrack my brain for some things that’ll _really_ make my boy _blush_! Which . . . hmm, may take a few days,” Bull muses with a content and almost dreamy smile, crooked and without guile, as he captures Cullen in another near-headlock and drags him onward to the kitchens.

 

He doesn’t elaborate on the nature of this new wager and Cullen doesn’t ask him to, choosing instead to go along with unhidden relief when Bull changes the subject to Rocky’s latest experiments— _explosions_ —as part of his continued attempts at making Qunari blackpowder.

 

“He’s actually gotten pretty close to a stable version of it, a few times. _Relatively stable_ , anyway,” Bull says in a hissed whisper. Cullen’s brows lift in consideration and interest, and Bull rolls his eye ceilingward even as he shudders. “Yeah, you can bet your tight virgin- _ass_ I’m _not_ gonna encourage that sort of mayhem by telling _him_ that!”

 

**III**

 

A day later, Cullen’s taking a planned pleasure-break from his many duties, as he’s wont to do every other workday, like clockwork.

 

He steps out of his office and locks it, smiling, and knowing that he’ll nonetheless find a slab of cake or half a pie on his desk when he returns.

 

Though Cullen’s been known to haunt the higher battlements which overlook damned near the entire continent . . . on _this_ sunny, warm, early afternoon, he heads down to the so-called _Special Little Place_ where he and Dorian Pavus wage their thrice-weekly chess-battles.

 

As ever, when on his way to trounce or be trounced at chess, Cullen’s got a spring in his step which _he_ is the only one who doesn’t notice. Nor does he notice the amused eyes and shared glances as he goes, dressed not in his armor and leathers—far too warm for all _that_ —but in his nicest lightweight tunic and breeches, both a rather jaunty heather-gray which Dorian has insisted brings out Cullen’s eyes on more than one occasion.

 

He’s halfway there when a smallish, but solid whirlwind of tans and duns collides with his legs. Cullen stumbles a bit and catches said whirlwind, steadying it and grinning down into a freckled face and big brown eyes.

 

“Hullo, Thomas. You’re in a rush,” he notes as the small errand-boy grins back at him. The grin is more spaces than teeth, and adorably puckish.

 

“Yes, _ser_ , Commander Cullen, ser! Didn’ realize you was _you_! You’re not wearin’ your armor!” Thomas practically accuses with hands on his hips, and Cullen snorts, matching the boy's akimbo stance.

 

“Yes, that _has_ been known to happen on occasion, lad. I imagine my _armor_ quite enjoys the change of pace, if nothing else.”

 

Thomas shrugs, his grin doubling in width, somehow. “If you say so, ser,” he says blithely, as if adults are indeed strange and nonsensical beings, but he’s willing to humor them. Then he bounces up on his toes, his dark-brown and sun-bleached curls bouncing, as well. The grin improbably widens a tic more and Thomas drags his sleeve across his face, under his nose, sniffling. “Was lookin’ for you, _anyway_ , Commander!”

 

“Were you, now?” Cullen asks kindly, even though he’s inwardly sighing at the thought of more make-work that’s likely to eat up his chess-break with Dorian. And certainly, Dorian is terribly understanding about such sudden duties, but _Cullen_ can be a bit of a bear when he’s kept from the favorite part of his days. _Everyone_ knows that by now, or should.

 

Including whomever sent Thomas Redferne to fetch him.

 

“Yes, ser! Threll and Bull—er, the Inquisitor and Ser Bull, say it’s urgent and a pri . . . priory?”

 

“Priority.”

 

“That! Yes! And that you’re to meet them at the Inquisitor’s chambers _as soon as possible_!” Thomas nods, as if proud of himself for delivering the entire message without having missed a thing. Cullen, meanwhile, is frowning back the opposite way he had been going.

 

Loath though he is to stand Dorian up for a chess match, he also knows the Inquisitor wouldn’t send for him to meet mere hours after a War Room briefing. Not unless it was something indeed urgent and a priority.

 

And possibly something of a highly sensitive nature if he’s adjourning in his study, rather than the War Room.

 

“That’s a good lad, Thomas. Thank you very much for your speed and dedication,” Cullen says with absent warmth, patting the eight years old on his tousled crown. He can feel the resulting pleased beam like sunlight, and he smiles again, digging into his pocket. A moment later, Thomas is catching the half-sovereign Cullen’s flipped at him.

 

“Thanks, Commander Cullen!”

 

“Don’t spend it _all_ on sweets, or your mother’ll come for my hide!” Cullen calls after the whooping, quickly departing child, who turns a cartwheel and a front flip on his way off to wherever. The only reply to Cullen’s admonition is another whoop that doesn’t give him much confidence he’ll be heeded, even if he’s been heard.

 

Chuckling, he turns back the way he’d come, stalking along efficiently, his step purged of spring and his mantle of _Commander_ firmly on his shoulders.

 

#

 

“Inquisitor? It’s Cullen. You have need of me?”

 

Cullen raps smartly on the heavy wooden door as he announces himself, then waits for a response patiently. The last time he’d absently knocked on the Inquisitor’s door and immediately entered without thinking, it had been rather eye-opening. To say the least.

 

It’d been nearly impossible to look either Bull or the Inquisitor in the face for weeks after, without having to fight very unprofessional and disrespectful giggles. And Cullen still doubts, three months later, that he’d been at all successful at hiding his near-giggles from either the _Ben-Hassrath_ -trained Qunari spy, or the keenly observant, apostate mage.

 

“Cullen! Please, do come in!”

 

At the Inquisitor’s always pleasant voice and amused, Free Marches-drawl, Cullen lets himself into the Inquisitor’s chambers, already speaking. “Thomas just barely caught me on my way to an, er, prior engagement. Is it Corypheus? I know that since the Well of Sorrows—”

 

“No, no, it’s nothing so dire or depressing, my friend,” the Inquisitor reassures Cullen from his stance at his balcony doors. Bull is sitting nearby, on the leading edge of the Inquisitor’s huge, messy desk, massive arms crossed, a crooked and knowing smirk affixed to his otherwise unreadable face. Cullen nods at him warily, then looks back at the Inquisitor, blinking so that his eyes readjust to the early afternoon sunlight and he can at least make out the expression on the Dalish elf’s foxlike face.

 

He’s standing in a bright ray of sunshine that favors him, as all lighting seems to. Despite the icy paleness of his skin; his shoulder blade-length, crow-dark hair and wide, up-slanted eyes; and his tendency to wear layered and textured black outfits—today’s outfit is black velvet breeches which are skin-tight, as ever; broken-in knee-high boots of scuffed black leather; and a loose cotton shirt the color of charcoal—he manages to look elegant and brightly dark. In the same outfits and with that complexion, most people would look either ill or as if they were in deep mourning.

 

Of course, the Inquisitor probably notices Cullen squinting and so, generous and expansive sort that he is, steps properly into his study. He’s smiling his usual edgy-dangerous-secretive smile, the dark glitter of his eyes—Cullen isn’t even certain what color of dark they are, merely that they’re _dark_ —flashing like the silver rings in his ears and on his fingers, and framed by his striking, abstract facial tattoos.

 

The Inquisitor is not, Cullen knows, an Andrastian, despite being the _Herald of Andraste_ , as well as the Inquisitor. He is, by his tattoos and free admission, an adherent, though not a worshiper of Andruil, the elvhen goddess of the hunt. And he had been born to a long line of Dalish Hunters—mostly Lavellans, and some Alerions—but had shown rather a lot of magical potential and talent fairly early in his life.

 

And eventually, he’d wound up on his own, as so many Dalish apostates tended to.

 

“The Lavellans are the only Dalish clan that has such a _vexing surfeit_ of bloody apostates, Commander,” Cullen had been informed candidly, followed by a rueful snort and the narrowing of the Inquisitor’s unusually grim eyes. “And apostate mages can be, in case you don’t know, _quite_ bloody awful.”

 

This discussion had happened one evening early in their association. They’d been in the War Room later than usual, pouring over maps and strategies. Cullen had been quite tired, or so he would later assume, when trying to imagine _why_ he’d even mentioned to the then Herald of Andraste that he was unused to working with a mage who not only policed himself so honorably, but was of such admirable character. “And not just for an apostate!” Cullen had been quick to add, meaning only to make his poorly-considered statement sound better. But he’d been almost immediately aware that he’d perhaps only made it worse. The Herald, however, had merely laughed, throaty and rich, and winked.

 

“Oh, don’t you be deceived, Commander. I’m quite a sneaky, shifty, lying, cheating _bastard_ , by nature and nurture,” he’d drawled in his lazy-low voice. His big, canny dark eyes had been dancing with mirth and alacrity, despite the late hour. And he’d been absently balancing a dagger point-down on his littlest finger for several minutes. Perfectly still. Before finally making the dagger disappear in a small gout of green flame. Then he’d smirked at a gaping, wide-eyed Cullen. The Herald’s staff, rarely seen, had not been in the War Room with them. “The magic just enables me to be so more stealthily.”

 

“I . . . see. And I’m quite relieved that we’re on the same side, then,” Cullen had replied, clearing his throat, and the Herald had snorted, then winked again, patting Cullen’s hand with his flashy, beringed one.

 

“If all _shemlens_ were as handsome and earnest as _you_ , Commander Cullen, I should _very_ quickly find myself in some trouble amongst you lot.” The future-Inquisitor had sighed wistfully, then turned back to the maps and such before Cullen’s blush had had a chance to even get properly deep.

 

Now, after rather a bit of measured staring, the Inquisitor winces a bit, but maintains his amused smile. Though his normally haunting eyes are merely haunted, for a few moments. “That we survived the Well of Sorrows, each of us in one piece, is quite the accomplishment. So, I shan’t stir myself to complain in the quiet aftermath. Well, _much_ ,” he adds, and Bull snorts, but turns an affectionate gaze on his lover, one that all the _Ben-Hassrath_ training in Thedas couldn’t hide or except.

 

Cullen chuckles, leaning against the door to shut it, then crossing his arms and stepping into the main room of the chambers properly. “In that case, might I ask what brings me here with such urgency?”

 

“Only a matter of utmost importance, else I shan’t have interrupted your prior engagement with Dorian. That _is_ where you were off to, looking so deliciously pulled-together, is it not?” The Inquisitor’s left brow quirks challengingly as he gives Cullen a heated and approving once-over. Cullen flushes, looking down at his gray-clad forearms.

 

“Ah,” he says, his brow furrowing in consternation. He feels caught out for some reason, never mind that the chess match-ups with Dorian have never been a secret. “Er, yes, Inquisitor.”

 

The Inquisitor snorts with fond exasperation, moving a few steps closer to Cullen. “How many times must I ask you, _Commander_ , to call me _Threllaryn_? Or _Threll_ , since damned near everyone else seems to, thanks to Bull's and Thomas’ bad examples,” he says, shooting a look at Bull that’s both wry and smoldering. And Bull winks right back and rumbles a quiet chuckle. Then both their canny-curious gazes are back on Cullen, who has to fight not to quail under such keen consideration. “Or you may simply call me _Lavellan_ , if you prefer, as _I’m_ the only Lavellan . . . _officially_ in residence at Skyhold.”

 

Huffing, Cullen spares a moment to think of that Dalish “archer” Bull employs as one of his Chargers. Though he’s often seen the Inquisitor— _Threllaryn_ —and the archer with their heads together, reminiscing like old friends or perhaps close kin, that archer had never, in the way of so many Dalish . . . _archers_ . . . been upfront about which clan she’d been from. Certainly not as upfront as Threllaryn has always been.

 

“If you insist. I . . . shall try harder to be less formal, Threllaryn. At least whilst in private,” Cullen is quick to quantify. Threllaryn chuckles, and it’s saved from being seething and sinister by the honest merriment inherent in it. He is, for a mage— _even an apostate_ —quite easily amused by life’s simplest happenstances and pleasures. Except when it comes to Inquisition business, of course.

 

When it comes to _that_ business, the business of saving the world, Threllaryn is as grim and determined as any of them. Perhaps more so since, as a mage and an elf, he has a more detailed grasp of what Corypheus would do to the world, should he manage to crush the Inquisition guarding it.

 

“Hmm. _That_ , I suppose, is _something_ , anyway.” Sniffing but still smiling, Threllaryn drifts a bit closer. Close enough that Cullen can see silver in his thick, crow-shadow hair that certainly hadn’t been there when they’d met. Or even been there three months ago. Were Cullen’s hair darker, Threllaryn would be able to see the same in it, most likely.

 

Stopping a few feet away from Cullen, regarding him thoughtfully once more—eye-to-eye contact, and they’re both of a height, which is to say about two inches above middling—Threllaryn finally sighs, reaching out to place his hands on Cullen’s biceps, in nearly the same places Bull had smacked the day prior.

 

“You, Ser Rutherford . . . really are quite the temptation. I’ve wanted to bed you since the moment we met—still do even now, if I’m honest,” Threllaryn says dryly, winking again. Cullen’s eyes widen until they feel as if they’ll roll right down his cheeks to _plop_ on the floor.

 

“I beg your p-pardon? Ah, erm . . . _what_?” Cullen whisper-mumbles, his gaze flicking to Bull, whose face has gone completely unreadable. He’s still sitting on Threllaryn’s desk, watching the proceedings as if he’s at a marketplace penny-theater.

 

And Threllaryn is moving closer, until all Cullen can see are those dark-dark eyes. They are, it turns out, like much of Threllaryn’s wardrobe, a gray so dark it may as well be black, with but a few lighter flecks of gray to relieve that abyss-like dark.

 

“I-Inquisitor,” Cullen begins in what’s little more than a squeak, and Threllaryn chuckles again, hungry and, yes, slightly sinister, before his hands clamp on Cullen’s hips. Even with the many rings aside, Threllaryn’s hands are frequently cold and with about as much give as stone. Unlike Dorian’s hands, which are always warm and gentle, if not exactly soft. They are . . . tender and reverent and caressing, after a fashion. At least in Cullen’s limited experience.

 

But Threllaryn’s hands are to-the-point, possessive, and dominant in a way that Cullen finds discomfiting. Though he’s fairly certain he wouldn’t, were the touch Dorian’s, with that added mix of warmth and reverence. Threllaryn’s touch is covetous, but nearly impersonal.

 

Dorian’s touch would . . . not be. At least, it wouldn’t be that second one. And Cullen wouldn’t mind it being the _first_ at all. . . .

 

He blinks and is almost startled to be looking not into Dorian’s lighter, stormier gray, but Threllaryn’s dark, chasm-endless one. And the hands on Cullen’s hips are not quite bruising tight, but the strength implied in those implacable twin grips would lend itself to bruising rather easily.

 

“Inquisitor, whaaah?” Cullen forces out on near-soundless puffs of air as his eyes automatically start to close. Threllaryn’s, however, are open wider than ever. And even though Cullen refuses to concede that _the Inquisitor is about to kiss him_ , he’s still a bit bowled over by the fact that Threllaryn Lavellan kisses with his eyes open.

 

Even though it's merely confirmation of a fact which actually makes sense, after a moment’s thought and in conjunction with what Cullen knows of his friend and leader.

 

He fights to force his eyes back open fully. “ _Threllaryn_ —”

 

“Hush, Commander,” the Dalish mage murmurs, low and intent, his breath cool on Cullen’s lips. “I’m going to kiss you, and then Bull and I have a friendly proposition that might interest you.”

 

“Whaaaa—mmph!”

 

At about the moment Cullen’s traitor-eyes flutter shut completely, Threllaryn’s lips press his. Then they part and his tongue patiently, but rather demandingly coaxes Cullen’s lips to do the same. The moment they do, Threllaryn surges into the kiss, commanding and possessive, with a soft, rumbling grunt sounding from low in his chest. His stone-soft hands grip and squeeze encouragingly at Cullen’s hips. Then at Cullen’s arse when, with a rather helpless whimper, Cullen surrenders to the kiss. His hands flap anxiously about, then settle hesitantly on Threllaryn’s narrow shoulders.

 

He doesn’t even realize he’s been backed up until he hits the door once more, and Threllaryn’s slim body, not as cool, nor quite as stony and lacking in give as his hands, presses tentatively, then less so, into Cullen’s. Threllaryn is more than half-hard and that’s . . . thrilling, if a bit intimidating and strange.

 

“Hmmm,” the Inquisitor murmurs on his way out of the kiss. His body, however, remains flush against Cullen’s. His eyes are bright and acquisitive. “You _are_ delicious, Commander. Had I any idea just _how_ delicious, I’d have bent you over the table in the War Room from the first—never mind Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine looking on.”

 

“Errr. . . ?” Cullen manages, blinking and dazed and _hard_ —rather, _harder, still_ , at Threllaryn’s dirty-casual admission.

 

“I suppose that leads nicely into why Bull and I summoned you here,” the mage goes on thoughtfully, but absently grinding and shoving his hips into Cullen’s. He darts in, snake-quick, to nip with vicious playfulness at Cullen’s right jaw, his eyes a-flash and a-flicker with want. “Don’t be alarmed or feel obligated, Cullen, but Bull and I want you. In the carnal sense. We want to take turns tumbling you and finding out what turns you into a mindless pleasure-slave. No strings attached or romantic expectations, of course,” Threllaryn adds, his left hand squeezing Cullen’s arse while his right moves back to Cullen’s hip. His eyes are drowning pools and Cullen feels as if he’s in danger of going under at any second. “I just really want you on your hands and knees for me, offering me your gorgeous arse like the exquisite treasure that it is.”

 

Cullen means to stammer out something—anything—but all that comes out is another whimper that’s at least half-whine. Until Threllaryn captures his mouth again with a ravenous growl. And for long enough that Cullen feels faint—not just from a dearth of oxygen.

 

“Full disclosure, beforehand, though,” he eventually breathes on Cullen’s tingling, swollen lips. “I’m . . . not especially, er . . . gentle, as a sexual partner. That’s more _Bull’s_ speed, or it can be. If you’d rather kick things off sweetly and considerately . . . you may wish to take _him_ first. He’s very good at that sort of thing . . . at _lovemaking_. I’m . . . really not. Thus, if you like loverly exploration to get you primed for something a bit more rigorous, Bull’s definitely the one who should have you first, because _I’ll_ just fuck you into next Tuesday, until neither of us can come anymore—good night, and thanks for playing. Although, bear in mind, Bull is _markedly_ larger than me. In _every_ way applicable. So, if ease and comfort are your main priority, you may want to take _me_ , first, if only as preparation for taking a cock as huge as I assure you _Bull’s is_.”

 

Cullen’s eyes are wider than ever when Threllaryn leans back a bit, smirking and smoldering, his gaze sweeping down and up Cullen with wanton and wicked promise.

 

“I . . . I, er. Oh, _bother_ ,” Cullen moans, closing his eyes to save his life. He still, nonetheless, feels himself sinking into dark, deep waters. “Inquisitor—”

 

“ _Threllaryn_ , Cullen.” It’s not a firm request this time, but an affectionate _command_ , and Cullen shudders and all but melts.

 

“ _Threllaryn_ , then. I . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand. . . .”

 

“What’s to understand, big guy?” Bull's voice, and from just behind Threllaryn. “We _want_ your fine ass. _Real_ bad. Especially Threll. I mean, I’m always down for some threesome-fun, or to watch my guy top like a _boss_ —and you _do, Kadan_ . . . you’ve got talent _and_ stamina.”

 

“I . . . oh, goodness gracious, now I’m _utterly_ speechless, Bull,” Threllaryn complains, his voice almost hoarse with emotion. When Cullen opens his eyes, Threllaryn’s angled his face back toward Bull’s for a languid kiss that makes Cullen blush to watch. Not because of licentiousness, but because of the surprising, bare-truth sweetness and surrender in it.

 

When the kiss ends, Threllaryn seems a bit shaken and dazed, blinking his big, dark eyes up at Bull, who’s studying Cullen once more.

 

“I’ll make it nice for ya, Commander. No doubt. Sweet enough to make angels weep. But _Threll’s_ gonna _rock your world_. He’s _never_ been this excited about any of the _other_ guys we’ve shared, that’s for sure.”

 

“O-other . . . guys?”

 

“ _Oh_ , yeah.” Bull smirks and shrugs. “I . . . don’t bottom often. Neither did Threll, until he and I got together, heh. But he’s still a top, no matter how amazing he is _to top_ and how much he enjoys being my bossy, little power-bottom. So, when we’re _both_ in the mood to pitch, we pick up a cute guy, explain the ground-rules and expectations, then Threll fucks the _life_ outta him while I watch and direct. Then take my turn. Sometimes concurrently.”

 

“Mm- _hmm_. I _do_ adore your ability to multitask, dearest,” Threllaryn purrs with obvious affection and pride as he finally turns his gaze back to Cullen.

 

“Hey, it’s a life-skill that frequently comes in handy with _you, Kadan_.” Bull kisses the crown of Threllaryn’s head, lingering and tender. The sight of that fond, familiar gesture brings a lump to Cullen’s throat and slows his racing—to completion—body down a bit.

 

And in that slowed-down handful of moments, he _fully_ realizes something astonishing. Something that makes him gape and blink and flush.

 

“You . . . I . . . you two want to, er, tumble _me_?”

 

“ _Desperately_ , yes,” Threllaryn says bluntly. Behind him, one hand on Threllaryn’s left shoulder, Bull nods.

 

“You—but I. . . .”

 

“Are a virgin? Yes. Bull mentioned as much— _not_ as idle chit-chat, but as part of our most recent discussion about whether to proposition you. _He’s_ still of the opinion that you’re saving yourself _and_ your delectable arse for . . . hmm, _someone special_.” Threllaryn’s straight, slanted brows quirk and Cullen’s flush intensifies once more. “For a certain chess-playing mage who _isn’t_ the bloody Herald of Andraste,” he goes on, with only slightly mocking emphasis on his least-favorite of many titles. “ _I_ , however, think that since you’ve been chaste your entire life, you’re probably _aching_ to get rid of that _cumbersome_ innocence by any means necessary. I hope that those means would include and even be partial to _my_ cock. And fingers and tongue—and . . . hmm, some _objects_ I’ve acquired—or Bull’s, if you want him to be first. I certainly wouldn’t mind watching that. Bloody _hell_ , it’d be my honor and pleasure, really.”

 

“Oh, my,” Cullen exhales weakly, sagging against the door and in Threllaryn’s stony grip. He closes his eyes on Threllaryn’s and Bull’s patient, but expectant gazes. “I am . . . dreadfully overwhelmed and in-shock, right now.”

 

Threllaryn tuts in such a strangely maternal way, Cullen snorts a laugh that ends on a soft moan as Threllaryn leans in again, to whisper on his sensitized lips. “Well, _that_ won’t do, _at all_ , my comely Commander. We _want you_ , yes, but we _also_ want you to be comfortable with and sure of us. We want your informed consent, as well as for your time with us to be enlightening and thrilling and _whatever_ else you’d like it to be. So, take as long as you need to think it over, and decide what you want and what is . . . acceptable. Bull and I are open to negotiations, and the offer stands in perpetuity for _you_ , handsome.”

 

Cullen moans again, his erection remembered suddenly as Threllaryn increases the intensity and urgency of his grinding and thrusting. The hands on Cullen’s hip and arse are steadying and seem brand-hot, as opposed to the chill of a few minutes ago. Cullen doesn’t dare to open his eyes because he knows that if he does . . . he’ll be a goner to something that, while intriguing and quite the instant-stiffener, isn’t what he really wants or needs. Not exactly. Not . . . right now.

 

He's certainly not ready for whatever this is _now_. Not _yet_.

 

“Mmm, poor, sweet boy . . . you’re _so_ hard . . . must be quite frustrating and incommodious,” Threllaryn tuts, once more teasing Cullen’s lips before sucking another kiss, lewd and languorous, from Cullen’s receptive and tingling mouth. “Threesome or not, I’ll _happily_ take the edge off for you, no pressure or consequences. Just. Like. This, Commander . . . or with my mouth, if you prefer. . . .” he murmurs as he snakes the hand that’s been on Cullen’s hip between their bodies to grasp and squeeze Cullen’s balls. His grip is slightly cruel, but appreciative and controlled.

 

Then, Threllaryn’s fingers tease and meander up the length of Cullen’s cock, over the now-damp, lightweight wool of his trousers. He does something—a flick of the wrist and slow, obscenely reverent teasing of the tip of Cullen’s cock—that almost makes Cullen come _hard_ , before possibly losing consciousness.

 

“Fair warning, though.” The Inquisitor is purring, once more, but not like a sated housecat. More like a roused _leopard_. “ _I’m_ of the mind that a blowjob without a good, _thorough_ fingering is really _no blowjob, at all_. . . .”

 

“Ahhh! I should go!” Cullen finally yelps, shaking and breathless, pulling away from Threllaryn’s touch, and with his eyes still closed. He flails and feels for the door latch behind him then, once the door is open just enough for him to squeeze his way out into the corridor, Cullen does so, stammering apologies and nonsense. He doesn’t open his eyes until he recalls the staircase, then narrowly saves himself from a blind topple right to the bottom. “Er, yes! Thank you both for your, erm, kind offer, but I must play chess—simply _must_ play chess! Because it’s Thursday afternoon, you see, and that’s when I play the chess! Yes! Thursday! See you at the evening briefing, Inquisitor! And you for sparring on the morrow, Bull! Haha! Good day!”

 

Then, one hand cupped over the distended, tunic-covered crotch of his trousers, he’s crab-walking—crab-hobbling—down the stairs, red as twelve beets, and muttering.

 

And even once he’s a mere two turns away from his office, he has to refrain from looking back the way he’d just come, his eyes wider than spring cabbages with lingering shock. Not to mention the occasional hiccup of hysterical giggles, and more than a bit of tectonically shifting paradigm.

 

The last of which is only cemented when he lets himself into his office—breathless with relief and still harder than an anvil in winter—and notices that instead of one serving of dessert on his desk, there is, for the first time, _two_.

 

#

 

“Damn, _Kadan_ . . . you’re _evil_. And sexy as hell, too.”

 

Threllaryn Lavellan smirks as the last of Cullen’s shadow rapidly disappears down the corridor. When there’s no clatter, as of a grown man falling down a flight of stairs, he shuts the door to his chambers and turns to face his lover. Bull is grinning, wide and proud and adoring.

 

That last one still gives Threllaryn a jolt that’s more heart-centric than he’s comfortable with admitting, even now. Even to himself. And even knowing that the jolt will probably never go away.

 

Though, some of that jolt is also groin-centric. Especially after teasing Cullen so blatantly. He presses his body against Bull’s, wrapping his arms around Bull’s neck. That grin turns into a hungry smirk that Threllaryn returns. They’re both hard, and no wonder. Though the hoped-for outcome—the both of them taking turns fucking Cullen to utter exhaustion—hadn’t happened, and though he now owes Bull twenty sovereigns and some admittedly intriguing sexual favors that will involve a trip to Val Royeaux for procurement purposes . . . Threllaryn still feels as if he’s come out on top, as it were. Still feels like a _winner_.

 

But then, being with Bull has always made him feel that way. Threllaryn doesn’t understand the why of that, but knows he would and will do anything to hold onto that and to Bull.

 

“Hmm, I really _am_ quite shamefully terrible. Especially to my friends. But even though we didn’t get that _divine_ arse in our bed, after all, we’ve hopefully given him some . . . hmm, _motivation_ to be proactive regarding Dorian. After the expert cock-teasing _I_ just did, taking himself in hand or fingering himself raw simply _won’t_ cut it, if ever it did. Nothing but the _real thing_ will do. If nothing else, we did him the favor of making him desperate enough to be reckless. Or at least brave,” he muses with pouty satisfaction, letting Bull sway him. It isn’t long before Threllaryn’s grinding against Bull’s powerful thigh and humming in contentment. Bull’s cock is hard and massive against his stomach.

 

“Wanna go find a cute, brawny blacksmith or carpenter for us to fuck?” Bull asks, sympathetic, solicitous, and happy to accommodate, as ever. Threllaryn hums again, his pout fading into a pleased smile.

 

“Not necessary, love.”

 

“You sure, _Kadan_? I know, betting aside, you had your heart set on fucking Cullen’s virginity out of mind. And out of memory, even.”

 

“Mmm . . . I _would’ve_ enjoyed popping his cherry, undoubtedly. But there’s only _one_ person I have my _heart_ set on, Bull, and it’s _not_ Cullen Rutherford.”

 

Bull chuckles, warm and tender. “Ah, you really _are_ goin’ soft on me, eh, Threll?”

 

“ _Soft_ is . . . really not the word I’d have chosen. . . .” at this, Bull gives another rumbling chuckle, and this time, Threllaryn joins in, looking up into his lover’s pale eye and dark eyepatch. Doing so, as always, makes his chest and ribs _ache fiercely_ , as if the tangled mess imprisoned just behind them is striving and fighting to break free. “If anyone deserves to give Cullen a memorable deflowering, it’s Dorian Pavus. And if anyone deserves to have that deflowering be with his _first love_ , then it’s Cullen Rutherford.”

 

“Softie,” Bull reiterates, but his grin is now a fond smile, as warm and tender as his chuckle. His arms around Threllaryn are tighter than _tight_. Protective, possessive, and somehow . . . forever.

 

“Oh, if you insist, you smug villain, _fine_. I’m a softie. At least when it comes to the people I care for. The people I . . . _love_ ,” Threllaryn admits, solemn and hesitant. So, it’s a relief when Bull kisses him, gentle and sweet, then harder and demanding. And though Threllaryn quickly takes control of the kiss, it isn’t long until his knees are threatening to turn to custard from the intensity of his desire. His _need_.

 

And said need _isn’t_ , all told, for a carpenter, nor even for the radiant and unattainable _Cullen Rutherford_.

 

Several minutes after the impending custardization of his knees begins, his arms are locked around Bull’s neck and Bull’s huge hands are kneading his arse. These are the _only_ things keeping Threllaryn from sagging to the floor in a discombobulated, desperate heap of Dalish apostate.

 

“ _Please_ , I . . . now is . . . one of those times _I_ need to fuck _you_ , Bull. Never mind some silly carpenter,” Threllaryn pants out in a hoarse, shaking voice. His eyes are closed tight because he’s not sure what would happen if he opened them. Possibly all the love for Bull within him would spill right out and sweep them _both_ away from all they know. _Possibly_ on a never-ending river of tears. And that wouldn’t do. Not at all. “ _No_ , I . . . I would _very much like_ to . . . make love to you.”

 

After a half-moment of pleased surprise, Bull’s soft, sensual lips press a tender kiss to Threllaryn’s forehead, just above his nose. One drop of that never-ending love-river leaks out from behind Threllaryn’s closed right eye and he shivers. He _fights_ not to simply blurt out all the frightening things he’s never had to worry about _feeling_ , let alone saying.

 

“ _Stay . . . please_ ,” slips out, however, soft as a sob, and Bull obligingly holds him tighter than _tightest_. Threllaryn’s unspoken, but obvious _always?_ quivers in and colors the air between and around them.

 

“Can do, Boss. _Gonna_ do,” Bull murmurs, rough and promising, as he backs toward the bed. His huge-callused-gentle- _perfect_ hands are steadying on Threllaryn’s narrow hips, just like his gaze on Threllaryn’s narrow face. Meeting that fond, warm regard is _all_ the focus and faith Threllaryn needs, lately. All the motivation and impetus in the world. To _save_ the world, never mind moving about in it with mindfulness and care and purpose.

 

“I _do_ love you, Bull,” he whispers with that same hoarse intensity, and though it’s _not_ the first time he’s said so, it rather _feels_ as if it is. And there’s an unfamiliar, soft-startled-love flicker in Bull’s calm, anticipatory stare.

 

Then Bull’s chuckling as Threllaryn tackles and pins him to the large, messy bed they’d so recently vacated, positioning and immobilizing his lover with a quick, effortless summoning of his power. For Threllaryn, such feats are easily and often performed. Brought to fruition by his desire-driven focus and his near-lifelong proclivity for instinctive, will-based magic.

 

When his wants and needs are great—and, as ever, so inextricably twined with his instincts and powers—Threllaryn doesn’t need his staff _at all_. With time and pushing the boundaries of his magic, his understanding and skill have become grounded in his very marrow and spirit.

 

Sometimes, his will even manifests without him stopping to consciously think it into being.

 

This is both thrilling and worrying. And, ultimately, _useful_ , Threllaryn supposes with his mostly pragmatic outlook. Possibly quite dangerous, too, should he ever become compromised regarding his baseline character and ethics. After all, even _Corypheus_ hadn’t _always_ been Corypheus.

 

Though, _now_ is hardly the space for contemplating such a grim—and, historically, _inevitable_ —eventuality. Someday, Threllaryn _may_ degenerate into yet another demon Thedas learns to fear. He may not. But now . . . _now_ is a space for wonder and delight. For enjoying the few _idyllic_ moments allotted to Threllaryn Lavellan’s increasingly bitter-bloody life.

 

And he means to make the most of every single one.

 

Bull’s chuckles turn into satisfied hums punctuated with bitten-off swears, as the kisses with which Threllaryn peppers his throat and chest turn to pointed, lingering love-bites. To livid marks that speak of definite purpose and place in a world just for two, to which Threllaryn is still humblingly unused. Of claiming and taking, even as he’s claimed and taken.

 

Of keeping and _being kept_.

 

“I _love_ you, Bull. . . .”

 

“Hmmm . . . and I love _you, Kadan_.”

 

**IV**

 

Having spent a pathetic and indecent amount of time waiting around—and hoping—for Cullen’s arrival in their favorite, tree-lined spot for a bit of chess, Dorian Pavus finally relaxes on his bench, lazing and dozing a bit in the dappled, leaf-filtered sunlight that warms his face.

 

The dozing turns into a nap that he’s apparently been needing, for as deep as it is. When he finally twitches and huffs himself awake, the sunlight’s not only shifted, but he’s slouching abominably, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest, and chin tucked down to his collar bone.

 

And he suspects he’s been snoring, as well.

 

 _Eugh, napping in public like a savage! What’s next? Bathing in public?_ he castigates himself roundly, opening his eyes with a sigh, even as he catches an enticing, spicy-sweet scent and wonders if _it_ had awoken him from such a sound slumber.

 

He receives the start of his life to see the Commander of the Inquisition’s military forces, sitting in his usual spot across the table, as if he’s simply appeared by magic—ha! He’s leaning forward a bit, in a patch of dappled, green-gold light, himself. His hair is the color of undiluted sunshine and his eyes rival the firmament above for both brightness and the intensity of that deep, steady blue. . . .

 

Dorian has to fight not to roll his eyes at his own nonsense and infatuation, and that makes him _extra_ snippy and snarky. “Well, you’re _horribly_ late, but at least I got some rest of it, so, you’re forgiven. This time.”

 

Cullen smiles his small, solemn, somehow _knee-weakening_ smile. And, as always, it’s as if the sun’s risen in Dorian’s world.

 

The plain truth of it—that _love_ , even the dark and obsessive kind which has taken over Dorian’s every moment, can still be, in some ways, so incredibly _plebeian_ —makes him irritable. But wearily so, despite his die-hard hopes that someday soon, Cullen Rutherford will let him know where he stands in no uncertain terms.

 

“I’m grateful to find you in such a generous mood, then, Dorian,” Cullen says and even his voice, low and deferential, but leavened with mild humor, makes Dorian’s body shiver and quicken most dismayingly. Add to that that Cullen’s wearing the heather-gray outfit that makes his broad shoulders _impossibly_ so, and his blue-blue eyes seem to sparkle like an eternal autumn sky . . . and Dorian’s simply thankful that he isn’t drooling. “For I’ve had a very strange and . . . startling afternoon, so far. But, hmm, enlightening, as well, I must confess.”

 

“Indeed? Do tell,” Dorian murmurs, dropping his gaze to the table and the game he’d set up, only to find the pieces all gone—likely in their wooden box, which is near the right edge of said table—and replaced by two mismatched plates bearing two huge slices of red-brown spice cake with buttercream frosting, and a light dusting of blueberries on top. And, of course, two mismatched dessert forks.

 

Blinking, he looks up at Cullen in surprise and question, but the other man is blushing, and frowning down at his slice of cake as if it’s offended him.

 

“You know,” he says slowly, a bit morosely, “it’s been rather a while since I was able to enjoy something that was . . . well, _anything_ , I suppose. With the exception of our little match-ups, it’s difficult for me to enjoy the things I once did. Or . . . things I once wished to do and of late, don’t even allow myself to contemplate.”

 

Dorian frowns, too. “I’ve . . . noticed, Cullen, that whenever you say something that’s seemingly apropos of nothing that came before, it’s really apropos of everything that will come _after_ ,” he muses, placing his hand on the table and edging it toward Cullen’s paler, rougher one. As usual, he stops just short of their fingertips brushing. Cullen’s hand is wider and squarer than Dorian’s longer, slimmer one—deliberate and utilitarian to Dorian’s leisurely elegance—but of similar dimensions, all told. “What’s on your mind, Commander?”

 

Cullen’s frown deepens a bit and he sighs, glancing up at Dorian, his emotive eyes all guilelessness and frustration . . . hope and yearning.

 

It’s the latter two that cause Dorian to inhale sharply . . . then glance down as Cullen’s fingers cover his own tentatively.

 

“Bull and Threllaryn seem to think that you’re . . . partial to me. In a romantic way, even. I don’t know for sure if that’s so, but one thing they’re both right about and of which I _am_ sure, is how _I_ feel. For _you. Feel for you_. Dorian,” Cullen mumbles in a rush, with a tiny pause before continuing, “I’m not good at saying how I feel. Or saying anything at all, really. I lack elegance and poetry and a finer sensibility. I’ve never been anything but a soldier. But the only thing I really desire, anymore, is to be near you. I am little more _than_ that desire. That _need_ for proximity to you, whether we’re playing chess, or brooding on the battlements, or sharing a silent, but companionable span simply sitting. Anything _beyond_ that would be . . . beyond my deepest and wildest hopes. I’m certain, in fact, that with each word I say, you’re a moment closer to kindly, but firmly putting me off. I can’t understand why you haven’t already. But that eventuality doesn’t even matter to me, anymore, because . . . I’ve very recently had it driven home to me how much more of you I desire than simple companionship. That I desire _all of you that there is_ and would happily accept whatever you’re willing to _share_ with me.”

 

In the silence that follows, Dorian is both wide-eyed and at a loss for anything that isn’t gaping. Cullen squints at him then nods as if he’s expecting nothing better than shock and silence. And possibly censure.

 

“Please bear in mind that none of this is your responsibility or worry. That this doesn’t have to . . . effect you. That I don’t . . . I don’t _expect_ anything from you. I just . . . couldn’t hide from myself or from you how _deeply_ I feel. Couldn’t _lie_ , anymore. I’m terrible at it, as you’ve likely noticed.” Cullen smiles, limp and brief. Dorian sniffs and manages to find his voice, at last.

 

“Yes, I _have_ noticed, Commander. You are _dreadful_ at dissembling and prevaricating. That’s one of many things I find so . . . endearing about you, and have from the beginning.”

 

This time, Cullen is the one to gape and gaze in the silence. Dorian smirks, then turns his hand under Cullen’s, closing around it and squeezing gently as relief and wonder and reluctant anticipation flood his veins like a serum. “You daft, _exasperating_ man . . . I’ve been driving myself absolutely _mad_ trying to interpret the _very mixed_ signals you’ve been sending me for months! I’ve been making myself as available as possible and as obvious as I dared, without actually whispering in your ear, _Cullen, follow me to my chambers_.”

 

Now, Cullen’s jaw actually drops, and his eyes become platters in his handsome face.

 

“Buuuuuh,” he says, his brow furrowing deeply, before he puffs out a startled: “ _What_?”

 

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Your interest is returned, my dear Commander. _Intensely_ so. I want you unequivocally and unconditionally. And I’m relieved that _you’ve_ finally figured out that you want me. It’s about time!”

 

“There was never any figuring necessary, Dorian,” Cullen breathes, looking more than a little dazed. “I’ve wanted you since I first laid eyes on you, it’s just. . . .”

 

“ _Just_?” Dorian prods with gentle, but peaked curiosity, giving Cullen’s hand another squeeze when the man falls miserably silent. With another deep sigh, he meets Dorian’s eyes after a minute has passed with tense slowness.

 

“I . . . have never had a romantic partner. Nor even a lover, whether spur of the moment or agreed upon for convenience’s sake,” he confesses in grave and apologetic tones, shaking his head. “I’ve only ever kissed two people— _been kissed_ by one other—and none of those times, though thrilling in their own fashion, to greater or lesser degree, felt . . . _right_. The last one because, though it was with someone I care for deeply, it wasn’t with the person I care for _most_. And the two before were, well . . . the people whom _I_ kissed had certain expectations of me that I’ve long known I can’t and have no interest in living up to. Rather than disappoint them as well as myself, I . . . thought it wiser and kinder to walk away.”

 

This time, the pause is longer, but Cullen goes on just before Dorian can offer gentle commiseration. His pale face is a rather alarming shade of magenta. It clashes unfortunately with his brassy-bright hair.

 

“Those two people I kissed were interested in what naturally follows kissing, as was I. But their desires and expectations of me were such that I would have only let them down.” Cullen shakes his head again and looks at their clasped hands. “They wanted a confident, dominant, assured _commander_ to take the reins. To ride them hard and put them away wet. They wanted to be _fucked_ to within an inch of their lives and made to love every moment of it. And while _that_ is a desire with which I _strongly_ identify . . . it’s not a series of traits that I can exemplify. Nor do I possess them in any real measure. I have no desire to be in charge, or take the reins. No need to dominate a lover. I don’t know that I have it in me to take someone the way . . . the way _I desperately want to be taken_.” Those blue-blue eyes dart to Dorian’s, then away. Then back, where they lock with shining intensity for a few seconds. “If you want a man who’s capable of giving you what damned near _any_ man _besides myself_ , happily could and would . . . _I’m_ not the man for you, I suppose.”

 

For several minutes after Cullen’s fallen silent once more, Dorian can only stare. Even after he opens his mouth to speak, drawing Cullen’s scared-wary gaze, still nothing comes out for another minute, besides.

 

Then they’re both startled by the laugh that finally emerges.

 

“You . . . you sweet, innocent, lovely _idiot_!” Dorian exclaims around what are almost giggles, but not quite. Because _Dorian Pavus does not giggle_. Cullen, meanwhile, has gone pale, but for hectic roses in his cheeks, and his eyes are lowered to the table. He’s yanking half-heartedly on his held hand as he starts to stand, radiating shame and anger and despair. At this, Dorian’s laughter cuts off and he clamps down on Cullen’s wrist hard. Surprised, the Commander meets his gaze with confusion and hopelessness.

 

“ _Stay right here_ , Cullen Rutherford, and listen very carefully,” Dorian commands with quiet, but unyielding steel. He’s both amazed and not when Cullen instantly obeys, and with a soft, choked-off groan that’s anything but miserable. Smirking, slow and smug, Dorian lets his grip slacken and his thumb stroke the racing pulse at Cullen’s strong wrist. “You owe me a game and, after we’ve finished this quaint confection, we’re going to have our usual match-up. Then, we’re going to your office, so you can delegate all your _very_ stuffy and important Inquisition-duties to your underused lackeys. _After which_ , we’re going to my chambers for the next day, at least, and I’m going to fuck you in my stupidly uncomfortable bed, up against _at least_ two of my under-decorated walls, and on or over whichever uninteresting, flat or load-bearing surfaces catch my eye— _not_ limited to my floor, my desk, and the back of my hideous sofa.”

 

Cullen blinks slowly but very deliberately, as if he’s drugged or seeing a mirage. He starts to speak several times, then falls silent or clears his throat.

 

“I . . . don’t know what to say, Dorian. As ever,” he finally murmurs, smiling just a little, his relief and the return of his hope shining from him like a beacon. He’s so bright and _golden_ , even in the beginnings of his happiness, that Dorian is rendered nearly breathless by that deep and core-true beauty.

 

“Say anything,” he replies from a throat gone dry and ticking, as he schools his face into an expression of genteel indulgence. Though the entire bottom-third of his face insists upon maintaining an outrageous rictus of a grin that earns him Cullen’s rare one in return.

 

With a huff, Dorian averts his too-readable gaze, picks up his fork in a display of negligent but eye-drawing articulation, and sorts out a bite of cake. As he chews and tries to savor it—still not looking at Cullen—he extends his right leg and runs the tip of his boot up along Cullen’s inseam slowly, with promise and possessiveness.

 

It isn’t long until the Commander of the Inquisition is so flushed, Dorian can see the change in his coloration even from the corners of his eyes.

 

He swallows his bite of cake without really tasting it, and smiles down at the remainder of the slice, letting his boot-tip pointedly rest a few inches from the heat and hardness he doesn’t doubt is so very near and urgent. The heat and hardness he desires _very much_ to get his hands and mouth on, and has for _far_ too long.

 

Cullen makes another strangled sound that’s part-groan, and it’s as gratifying as it is arousing.

 

“Say _anything_ you like, Commander. Or say nothing at all. Either way, I’m at last satisfied that we understand each other perfectly.” Dorian shoots Cullen a look as laden with meaning and truth as he can make it.

 

The way Cullen’s breath catches, and the speed and repetition with which he nods his assent is . . . reassuring, indeed.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” he says in a voice that doesn’t shake. It’s firm and smooth, but dripping with pure, naked _need_. “Yes, I think we do, too.”

 

“ _So_ glad you agree, my soon-to-be-sullied turtledove!” Dorian lets his boot-tip move up a careful inch, encouraged by the enticing music of Cullen’s breathy sounds of agreement and stuttering attempt at Dorian’s name. He takes a second forkful of the cake, and hums his way through another distracted and tasteless mouthful. “ _Utterly_ delightful! Now . . . _do_ let’s get on with the dessert and the game, shall we? Before I lose _all_ sense of propriety and romance, throw you down on this table, then divest you of clothing and innocence in short order . . . and damn the eyes and ears nearby!”

 

**V**

 

_Four months later:_

 

“You wanted to see us, Dorian?”

 

Dorian Pavus smiles, mild and welcoming, as he gestures for a curious but wary Threllaryn and Bull to enter his chambers. “Indeed, I do, Inquisitor! And Bull! _Do_ come in and seat yourselves wherever you like!”

 

Threllaryn and Bull—the former lean and lethal in his elegant, unrelieved black; the latter solidly massive and inexplicably intriguing in his usual leather harness and carnival tent-patterned trousers—share a glance, then enter as bidden, making their way to the main area of Dorian’s chambers. Already seated on the sofa, near the right arm of the frequently abused piece of furniture, is Cullen, dressed in a long blue tunic and brown leather breeches that normally make it impossible for Dorian to keep his hands off the transcendent arse they showcase.

 

Threllaryn sits regally in the tall, stiff-backed chair across from Cullen, as he always does when visiting Dorian. Bull, ever the hired muscle, stands behind his lover with a light, but claiming and reassuring hand on his left shoulder. Both their faces are unreadable, but for the cagey-keenness of their eyes. Dorian’s smile curls wickedly.

 

Once he’s settled next to a wide-eyed, but coyly deferential Cullen, he crosses his right leg over his left, at the ankles, and places his right hand on Cullen’s thigh: high, possessive, and inclined inward and upward. As ever, Cullen’s shiver and (for once) stifled moan thrill Dorian beyond all reason. He rewards his lover with a firm squeeze and some more inclining of his hand. All points any too much higher are concealed by Cullen’s loose, comfortable tunic—not that Dorian needs to _see_ the delightful sight of his lover, hard and controlled by a gorgeous copper cock-ring picked up in Val Royeaux, to know how desperate and eager Cullen is.

 

How . . . _ready_.

 

And ready in _every_ sense of the word, considering the vigorous fucking Dorian had given him several hours prior, followed a warm, relaxing bath and massage, which had culminated in the slow, loving insertion of a formidably _girthy_ and _liberally oiled_ plug—also from the same trip to Val Royeax.

 

Yes . . . Cullen is _so very_ ready. As is Dorian. He’s been waiting quite some time for them _both_ to be ready for this next step.

 

Now, as he meets the eyes of his dear friends and colleagues, then his visibly enthusiastic _Amatus_ , Dorian decides to dispense with his usual self-indulgent banter and teasing. To . . . cut right to the chase, as Fereldans are wont to say.

 

Shifting his hand from the familiar but intriguing heat and hardness trapped so tantalizingly near, he covers Cullen’s nervous hand with his own, then lets their linked hands rest on Cullen’s left thigh. That’s easily and as always, worth Cullen’s solemn and sweetly trusting smile. Dorian returns it with a fierce, but equally _adoring_ one of his own. He can’t even remember what it feels like to hide his obsession, infatuation, and devotion to his _still angelically pure_ and noble paladin.

 

The smile he then serves to Threllaryn and Bull is just _slightly_ different in shape than the one only Cullen ever gets to see, but vastly different in intention. Rather than tenderness and reassurance, it’s all teeth and challenge.

 

The other couple exchanges another glance, startled and intrigued, then goggles back at Dorian, who smirks and takes his leisure at enjoying the delicious end of a Moment. As he tends to, when he has not only a captive audience, but one that's likely to soon be eating from the palm of his hand.

 

Under their clasped hands, the strong, solid muscles of Cullen’s thigh twitch and thrum, with anxiety and anticipation . . . but by far with more of the latter.

 

 _So very ready_.

 

“Hmm, well, since I know _all_ of our time is precious, I shan’t mince another word,” Dorian declares lazily, nonetheless, placing his free hand on his left knee with measured grace. “The Commander and I have a . . . friendly proposition that might interest you both. . . .”

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> stitchcasual’s Prompt: _um, wriiiiiite Dorian catnapping in the sun and someone waking him up slowly with like...a massage or something? or cookie smells? domestic fluuuuffffff_
> 
> It went a bit sideways and long, prompt-wise. Sorry?  
> ::flails::
> 
> [Care for a Tumble](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)?


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